


Stir Fry

by thatwritertype



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatwritertype/pseuds/thatwritertype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfortunately, I own none of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stir Fry

Sherlock awoke at 3:30 in the afternoon after a staggering seven hours of sleep. He dragged himself into the kitchen and poured water into the kettle and put it on to boil. John wandered in, clearly just finished with his shift at the surgery.

“You’re making tea?” John asked, his mouth quirking upwards at the corners. “Are you sick or something?”

Sherlock attempted to shoot him an affronted glare, but judging by the softening of John’s expression it came off as simply pathetic. “Oh, you really are sick,” he murmured, resting his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “What are your symptoms other than the fever?”

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty. “Sore throat. Achy. Headache.”

John made a “hmmm” in the back of his throat as he poured the boiling water into a clean mug. “Sit down before you pass out,” he said, sticking two pieces of bread into the toaster.

Sherlock obeyed, pushing a couple of beakers aside so he could rest his head on the table. From his sideways position he watched John putter around the kitchen and spoon honey into the tea, absently explaining, “It’ll coat your throat and make it easier to swallow.” Next, John spread a thin layer of honey over one of the pieces of toast and sliced half a banana over the top. He handed the food and the mug to Sherlock, who silently carried them into the sitting room. John followed soon after with his own toast (spread with raspberry jam) and his tea.

Sherlock curled up on the couch in a half-seated position, learning against the arm. John plucked a fuzzy knitted afghan, a Christmas gift from Mrs. Hudson, from one of the chairs at the breakfast table. He brought it over to Sherlock and draped it loosely around the other man, almost tucking Sherlock in. 

“You…” Sherlock began, pausing to swallow thickly to clear the mucus from his throat. John turned around. “Yeah? Need something?” 

Sherlock shook his head in frustration. “You always take such good care of me, John,” he rushed, hoping his flatmate could hear the unspoken thanks in his voice. John gave him a gentle smile back. “Of course. What are friends for?”

What, indeed? Sherlock wondered, watching John settle into his armchair with one of his novels. All Quiet on the Western Front today. Was John’s care for him that of a comrade-in-arms, a fellow? Or was it more, but still platonic? Or could it be something more entirely? He would have to look into that possibility further.

Sherlock didn’t realize how long he’d been sitting there until John looked up and sighed. “Sherlock. Sherlock! Hey. Don’t go off into space. You need to drink your tea and eat some toast. Got to keep your strength and your fluids up.”

Sherlock shot him a frustrated look. “It hurts, John,” he rasped.

“Yeah, I know. If you drink the tea before it gets cold it’ll help your throat. And take small bites of your toast! No gobbling it down like you usually do.”

Sherlock sighed and took a tiny sip of tea, wincing as it rushed down over the already-scalded skin of his throat. He glanced over at John. 

“I can always get you an IV drip if you can’t manage to drink anything,” the doctor remarked slyly.

“You know I don’t like needles.”

“Yeah, well, you’d better keep drinking. If you can manage some toast I’ll get you paracetamol and maybe that’ll help you a bit.”

Sherlock downed more tea and took a bite of toast, wetting it a little with another sip of the hot liquid. John nodded, a proud look on his face, and handed Sherlock a couple of pills and a glass of orange juice. After he drank them down, Sherlock curled up on his side and hugged a pillow to his chest. Just before he drifted off, he felt strong, gentle hands fold the blanket more snugly around his body and give his back a soft pat…

***

When Sherlock awoke once more, the room was a little darker and the cups and plates were gone. He could smell John’s cooking—stir fry something with a few scrambled eggs and a bit of sauce in with leftover chicken from the other night. Sherlock hauled himself up off the sofa and made his way into the kitchen where John was poking at the food on the stove, pushing it around to ensure that it cooked all the way through as the steam floated upwards to the ceiling.

Sherlock swallowed experimentally, pleased that the paracetamol seemed to have helped the pain in his throat. John glanced up at the sound and smiled. “How’re you feeling?”

“A little better. My throat doesn’t hurt so much,” Sherlock replied.

“That’s good! Do you want some of this?”

Sherlock eyed the stir fry warily. It smelled good and he knew the heat would help, but he didn’t really relish the thought of the pain it may cause. John handed him a bowl. “Try a little bit and see how you feel. In another hour or so you can take a couple more pills.”

The two retreated to the living room again and John flicked on the television, clicking through the channels until he found a David Attenborough documentary. Sherlock tentatively took a bite of the stir fry, chewing the carrots and peas thoroughly before swallowing. It made his throat twinge a little, but the heat was soothing.

He looked up to find John’s eyes on him, crinkled in one of his quiet smiles. “How is it?” he asked.

“Your cooking skills are improving every day, though they’re still not much better than something from the cafeteria at Bart’s,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, ta, then.” John’s eyes slid back to the screen and he took the occasional bite of his stir fry. 

Sherlock relaxed back into the sofa and finished his dinner before setting his bowl back on the coffee table. He slid a criminology journal out from between the couch cushions and tried to read, but found his mind and his eyes wandering back to John. John, who was wonderful and strong and had soft hair. John, who had tucked him in on the couch earlier, had made him toast and dinner, and who did it all without hesitation. Sherlock could have taken care of himself and would have if John hadn’t been there or if it had been anyone else but John. John was special and he deserved to know…

Sherlock stood and folded the afghan around himself before taking the few steps to John’s armchair. His flatmate looked up. “Hey—do you need anything? Something wro—oof!”

Sherlock plopped down in the doctor’s lap. He swung his feet up over the arm of the chair to allow himself to stretch out a little more and pushed his head under John's chin.

John shifted, tension coiling in his body. “Ah, Sherlock…what’s going on? Are you okay?”

Sherlock just shrugged and curled closer to John. “I wanted to get more comfortable and since you’ve been so accommodating all day I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind, but if you’d rather I not...” he made to get up from his cocoon of John and blanket.

John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and the other around his side, tucking him further into his chest. “No, this is fine.”

Near-silence returned to the sitting room as Attenborough murmured on about a baby rhinoceros on the television. Sherlock found himself lulled by the warmth of John’s body and the subtle, clean odor that told him of John’s day at the surgery, the shower he had taken while Sherlock napped earlier, and the stir fry he had cooked for just the two of them.

Dimly Sherlock noted that his heartbeat and breathing pattern were slowing to match John’s and was nearly asleep when his flatmate's soft voice disturbed him. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Sherlock grumbled a little before answering. “Yes, John, I’m just perfect where I am.”

Before he fell asleep once more, he heard John whisper his response into the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Yes, you are.”

**Author's Note:**

> David Attenborough is a real-life naturalist, broadcaster, and all-around lovely guy who makes nature documentaries. He's really fun to watch, as evidenced by this sweet video of him with a blind baby rhino that Sherlock and John saw on television: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-V160mAiclc. I think Sherlock would enjoy his work.
> 
> Oh, and it's my personal headcanon that Sherlock's past experiences with intravenous drugs have made Sherlock dislike needles because they remind him of his days as an addict.
> 
> ETA: I noticed some mistakes and some places where I overused certain words, so I edited a little bit!


End file.
